i'll be the first to part lips and say it,i'll be the first to shout it out, the firstto write it on every wall in vivid color,to cast a sign in iron, to stretch neon lettersthat scream to the world: no, no, jorgewas not the better man, and he never was-

the better man, the one who quieted,the one who said it was all right and lookeddown at his feet, who twisted inside andreleased in private rooms, who overcamewith sheer tenacity and broke barriers witha soft voice and softer hands, that was not-

me, but you lashed out first, but i lashedback, i shouted things at you that hurt, itook your cold eyes and found lustful cocks,cheap nights in rooms i scarcely remember,sex enjoyed because it wasn't you, becausei couldn't stand the sight of you, becausei was the faggot in the tower, the moochwith nowhere else to go and you-

said some mean shit to me, you used totug my hair and call me dumb, saidi was scum they scrape off the streets,that my poetry was worthless and maybei should just get over my papi, that i waspathetic for lingering in the past, that onlyfaggots get molested because i wanted it-

and i called you a pussy because youlet your mom hit you and you cried wheni told you she castrated you, she made yousome husk of pasty skin, some inhuman thingthat can't feel anymore, that you were onestep above being a fucking psychopath-

so i was not the better man, and sometimesyou were kind: where was i to stay, had you notopened your door? where was i to stay, had you notwanted my figure sprawled on sheets, had you notcraved the "mediocre" sex i gave you, had you notdesired so for a boy to keep in your house, a boythat had nowhere else to call a home?

i called you a pedophile, and i was notthe better man, i was never superior, i was neveranything more than what you said, and sometimesi still believe your voice, that you knew me betterthan anyone else can manage, that chris is blindedin some genius that i do not posses, that yourpessimism meant the world, and that worldis the one we live in-

but when i needed a bed, when i needed youthe very most, when i was pleading and telling youthat those other lays meant nothing: you justmade me so angry, and i felt like maya angelou,i felt emasculated, i felt like a woman, thecaged bird singing to no one but himself,

the faggot whore with nothing to his namebut a few clean months and a pretty mouth,

you said take your bags and leave, you saidi wasn't worth it, that i was too damaged to fix,that you can't glue together a million tiny pieces,that some are made of glass and others of steeland i was the former, i was shattered, i wasgoing to burn out like a candle flame, nota dying star, not a dying poet, not a manwho leaves the world in glowing beauty-

i was not the better man. i will never sayi was the better man, but i will say-

neither were you.

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